Reborn To Love My Stoic Soldier Husband

The harsh, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was the only sound left in the world.

Clara lay flat on the hospice bed. Her lungs felt like they were packed with crushed glass. Every shallow breath was a battle she was losing.

Trevor stood at the edge of her bed. He wasn't crying. He was smiling. It was a cold, tight smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

He leaned down. His breath smelled like stale coffee and cigarettes.

"You spent your whole life building a fortune for people who hate you, Aunt Clara," Trevor whispered. His voice was a physical scrape against her eardrums. "Thanks for the inheritance."

He reached for the plastic valve connecting her oxygen tube to the wall.

Panic exploded in Clara's chest. Her heart hammered wildly against her brittle ribs. She tried to lift her hand. She needed to stop him. Her fingers were nothing but bone and thin, bruised skin. They twitched on the white sheet, heavy and useless.

Trevor wrapped his hand around the valve. He didn't hesitate. He yanked it.

The hiss of oxygen stopped.

Clara's mouth fell open. Her chest heaved, pulling in nothing but dead, empty air. Her throat constricted. Fire ripped down her windpipe. She was drowning on dry land.

Trevor turned his back on her. He walked out of the room. The heavy wooden door clicked shut, sealing her inside her own grave.

Darkness edged into her vision. The burning in her lungs turned into a crushing weight.

In her final seconds, the sterile white ceiling faded. A face replaced it. A face with a strong, clenched jaw and deep, silent eyes. Cade. The man she had driven away. The man who had loved her when she was unlovable.

A single, hot tear broke free from her wrinkled eye. It slid down her temple, pooling in her gray hair.

The monitor flatlined. A solid, piercing tone drilled into her skull.

Then, absolute black.

A violent jolt ripped through her spine.

Clara gasped. Air flooded her lungs in a massive, painful rush. She choked on it, coughing violently.

She wasn't lying down. She was sitting up.

Her hands flew to her throat. The skin wasn't loose and papery. It was firm. Smooth.

She opened her eyes. The sterile hospital room was gone. She was sitting on a hard mattress covered in a cheap, scratchy red bedsheet.

Her breath hitched. She looked down at her hands. No liver spots. No protruding blue veins. Just young, unblemished skin.

She touched her face. Her cheeks were warm. Her fingers came away smeared with thick, cheap foundation.

She looked around. Faded red paper cutouts of the word "Happiness" were taped to the peeling wallpaper. Two red candles burned on a chipped wooden nightstand, dripping wax onto the surface.

A sliver of yellow light spilled from beneath the bathroom door across the room. The sound of running water echoed through the thin walls.

The memory hit her with the force of a physical blow.

She was twenty years old. This was her wedding night.

Clara stood up. Her legs wobbled. She walked to the small vanity mirror in the corner.

A young woman stared back at her. Her hair was styled in stiff, outdated curls. Her wedding dress was a monstrosity of cheap lace and stiff tulle.

She pinched the soft flesh of her forearm. Hard.

A sharp, stinging pain shot up her arm. She let out a shaky breath. It wasn't a dying hallucination. The pain was real. The air in her lungs was real.

The water in the bathroom shut off.

The sound snapped her back to reality. In her past life, this was the exact moment she had started screaming. She had thrown a lamp, cursed Cade's name, and forced him to sleep on the lumpy couch in the living room. It was the beginning of a miserable, toxic marriage.

Clara closed her eyes. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her breastbone.

Not this time.

She reached up to the high collar of her dress. Her fingers fumbled with the top plastic button. It was digging into her windpipe, suffocating her just like the oxygen tube had. She ripped it open.

She kicked off the stiff, pinching white heels. Her bare feet hit the cold, warped floorboards.

She walked toward the bathroom. Every step felt like walking out of a grave.

She stopped in front of the door. She could hear the rough friction of a towel rubbing against wet skin inside.

Clara didn't yell. She didn't throw anything.

She reached out. Her palm flattened against the cool brass doorknob. She turned it. The latch clicked.

She pushed the door open.

A thick cloud of white steam rolled out of the bathroom, carrying the sharp scent of cheap Dial soap.

Clara stepped into the doorway. The steam parted.

Cade stood in front of the small, cracked sink. He was facing the mirror, his broad, muscular back to the door. Water droplets clung to his tanned skin, tracking down the deep groove of his spine.

At the sound of the door opening, his entire body went rigid.

He moved with terrifying speed. He snatched a faded gray towel from the rack and spun around, wrapping it haphazardly around his narrow waist.

His dark eyes locked onto her. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek.

"Get out." His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. It carried the absolute authority of a military sergeant.

Clara didn't move. Her eyes dropped from his face.

There it was. The jagged, raised pink scar slashing diagonally across his left pectoral muscle. In her past life, she had called it disgusting. She had refused to look at it.

Now, her chest ached so badly she could barely breathe. She wanted to press her lips to that ruined flesh.

Instead of stepping back, she stepped forward. Her bare foot crossed the threshold into the humid, cramped bathroom.

Cade's eyes widened a fraction. He took a subconscious half-step back. His bare shoulders hit the cold, wet tiles of the shower wall.

"I said get out, Clara," he warned, his voice rising in volume. "This isn't the place for one of your tantrums."

Clara ignored him. She looked down at the floor. A puddle of soapy water gathered near the drain.

She shifted her weight and planted her right foot directly onto the slickest patch of tile.

She let her ankle give way.

A short, sharp gasp escaped her lips as her center of gravity vanished. She pitched forward, falling directly toward him.

Cade didn't think. His military reflexes bypassed his brain.

His large hands shot out. He caught her by the upper arms just before her face smashed into the sink.

Clara crashed into his solid, burning-hot chest. The impact knocked the breath out of her. His skin smelled like clean soap and male sweat. It was intoxicating.

The moment his bare hands registered the soft fabric of her dress and the heat of her skin, he tried to let go. He recoiled like he had touched a live wire.

Clara didn't let him.

Her hands flew up. Her fingers dug fiercely into the thick, corded muscles of his biceps. She held on with a desperate, white-knuckled grip.

"Ow," she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut and contorting her face in pain. "My arm. I twisted my arm."

Cade froze. His hands hovered inches from her waist, unsure where to put them. Suspicion warred with deeply ingrained protective instinct in his dark eyes.

He looked down at her hands gripping his arms. "Let me see it."

Clara sagged against him. She let her full body weight rest against his chest, forcing him to bear her load. The physical distance between them was completely erased.

"I can't," she whispered. She tilted her head back and looked up at him.

Her eyes were wide, glassy, and completely devoid of the venom he was expecting. There was only a soft, raw vulnerability.

Cade's breath hitched. His Adam's apple bobbed hard in his throat. He looked trapped. He forced his gaze away from her face, staring intensely at the peeling paint on the bathroom door.

"I'll get the first aid kit," he said gruffly.

He tried to step back, to peel her fingers off his arm.

Clara tightened her grip. Her nails dug slightly into his skin.

"My ankle hurts too," she lied smoothly. "I can't walk. You have to help me to the bed."

Cade let out a harsh breath through his nose. He looked down at her, his jaw set like granite. He clearly didn't believe her, but he wasn't going to risk dropping her on the hard tile.

Slowly, reluctantly, he slid one massive arm around her waist.

His palm was rough and calloused against the thin lace of her dress. Clara shivered at the contact.

"Lean on me," he ordered.

He carefully guided her out of the steamy bathroom. He kept his body as rigid as a board, trying to minimize the friction between them.

Clara rested her head against his shoulder as they walked. She buried her face in the crook of his neck.

A tiny, hidden smile touched her lips.

Cade guided her to the edge of the large, creaky bed. He lowered her onto the red mattress and instantly snatched his arm back.

He took three large steps backward, putting a safe distance between them.

Without looking at her, he walked to the small wooden closet. He pulled out a faded gray t-shirt and a pair of worn sweatpants. He pulled the shirt over his head, hiding the scar and the heat of his chest.

Clara sat on the edge of the bed. She rubbed her perfectly fine arm, her eyes tracking his every movement.

Cade reached into the bottom of the closet. He dragged out a thin, scratchy wool blanket and a flat, lumpy pillow.

He tucked the pillow under his arm and grabbed the blanket. He turned toward the bedroom door.

"I'm sleeping on the couch," he announced to the wall.

Clara's stomach plummeted. The cold dread of her past life rushed back. That was exactly how it started. He walked out that door, and the chasm between them grew until it swallowed them both.

She shot up from the mattress.

"Stop right there!" she ordered. Her voice was sharp and loud in the quiet room.

Cade halted. He slowly turned his head. His eyebrows pulled together in a deep, frustrated V.

"If you walk out that door and sleep on that couch," Clara said, her chest heaving, "every nosy neighbor in this building will know by tomorrow morning. Your mother will be the laughingstock of the base."

Cade's jaw locked. The mention of his mother, Martha, hit the exact nerve Clara was aiming for. He hated gossip. He hated his family being talked about even more.

He stared at Clara for a long, tense moment. The muscles in his neck strained against his collar.

He turned around. He walked back into the bedroom and threw the blanket onto the hard wooden floorboards at the foot of the bed.

"I'll sleep on the floor," he said, his voice dripping with ice. "Just keep your mouth shut."

Clara watched him drop to his knees and spread the thin blanket over the hard wood. Frustration bubbled in her throat, but she bit her lip. It was a start. He was in the room.

Cade reached up and clicked off the overhead light. The room plunged into shadows, lit only by the weak, yellow glow of a small bedside lamp.

He lay down on his back, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.

The room was suffocatingly quiet. Clara could hear the steady, controlled rhythm of his breathing.

Five minutes passed.

Clara suddenly let out a sharp, agonizing gasp, her hands flying to her abdomen as she curled tightly into a ball on the mattress.

Cade exploded off the floor. He moved like a coiled spring, landing on his feet in a low, defensive crouch. His eyes darted around the dim room, scanning for a threat.

"What?" he barked.

Clara pointed a trembling finger at her stomach. "My stomach... it's a cramp. A horrible cramp. I think it's from the stress of today."

Cade marched over to the side of the bed. He looked down at her, his chest rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths. The exhaustion in his eyes was absolute.

"There's nothing I can do for a stomachache, Clara," he said flatly. "Stop playing games. What do you want?"

Clara hugged her knees tighter. "I need you to stay in here. In case it gets worse."

Cade rubbed a hand roughly over his face. He looked at her, sitting on the bed in her ruined wedding dress, acting like a child.

"If you hate being in the same room with me this much," he said, his voice dropping to a deadly quiet register, "we can go to the courthouse tomorrow. We can get a divorce."

The word hit Clara like a physical punch to the gut. All the air left her lungs. Her skin went ice cold.

Divorce.

She grabbed the fluffy pillow next to her and hurled it at his head with all her strength.

"No!" she screamed.

The pillow bounced harmlessly off his chest, but the raw fury in her voice made him flinch.

Clara scrambled off the bed. She stomped right up to him, tilting her head back to glare into his shocked eyes.

"You don't get to say that word," she hissed, her finger jabbing into his solid chest. "I am your wife. And I am not getting a divorce."

Before Cade could process her outburst, Clara dropped to her knees. She crawled right onto his makeshift floor mattress.

She grabbed his thin wool blanket and yanked it over her shoulders, wrapping herself in a tight cocoon.

"I'm sleeping here," she declared, glaring up at him from the floor. "The bed is too soft for my back right now."

Cade stared down at her. His mouth parted slightly. He looked at the empty bed, then down at the woman fiercely guarding his lumpy floor pillow. His brain simply could not compute her behavior.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, defeated exhale.

Without another word, he turned around, walked to the large, empty bed, and lay down on top of the covers.